ITβS CALLED CLOCKWORK;
THE WORDS I HAVE WRITTEN ARE BLOODY
I HAVE ASKED THEM IF THEYVE BEEN TO WAR
THEY HAVE NOT ANSWERED ME, BUT I KNOW THE ANSWER :
I WAS TOLD THERE ARE THINGS WORTH FIGHTING FOR
BUT I LAY HERE WONDERING WHAT THEY ARE, AND WHY THE HELL I WAS NOT :
THE BATTLES WE HAVE ARE MAYBE NOT ENOUGH AND THE BATTLES WE DONβT ARE MAYBE TOO MUCH :
THE JOKE, THE WAY IβD RATHER WRITE MY POETRY AGAINST YOUR SKIN
RATHER THAN ANY OTHER PAPER, IβD ALWAYS SAY I LOVED TREES
BUT THE PUNCHLINE WAS YOUR WORD BLOODIED KNUCKLES COLLIDING WITH MY EMOTION BLOODIED FACE :
WE HAVE MADE A MESS, BUT I CANNOT SAY I DONβT THINK ITβS BEAUTIFUL, IβD ALWAYS SAY IβM A BIT SADISTIC :
WE ARE LYING HERE, WITH WORDS LACED UPON OUR LIPS, AND LIES LAYED UPON OUR TONGUES, BUT WE HAVE NOT BEEN PROVIDED THE AIR TO SPEAK THEM.